


Honey Trap

by ineswrites



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Bar Room Brawl, Bottom Jack Rollins, Canon Compliant, Car Sex, Drunk Driving, Drunk Sex, Hospitals, Insults, M/M, Recruitment, brief std scare, moral hangover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-18 23:01:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14861957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineswrites/pseuds/ineswrites
Summary: Jack doesn’t pay much attention to him at first. The stranger sits quietly in his place, not bothering anyone, so Jack labels him as harmless in his mind and quickly forgets about him as he tends to other patrons.He’s wrong.





	Honey Trap

**Author's Note:**

> Please mind the tags; the consent in this may be considered dubious due to characters being intoxicated.

Jack doesn’t pay much attention to him at first. He’s just another guy that orders beer. Jack pours him a mug from the tap and collects the payment, not even looking the guy in the face. He usually avoids eye contact, has since he can remember. He used to think he was shit at remembering people’s faces because of it before he realized he never actually looks at them in the first place.

The guy sits at the bar, but Jack pays him no mind. For his part, the stranger sits quietly in his place, not bothering anyone, so Jack labels him as harmless in his mind, and quickly forgets about him as he tends to other patrons.

He’s wrong.

It starts after he orders a second beer; it seems the first one made him more talkative, and he decided the bartender would be the best conversationalist in the place. Jack hates that stereotype; he’s neither a good conversationalist nor he likes it when tipsy people chat him up.

“Hey.”

He wishes he could ignore him, but it’s not good for business, as his sister keeps reminding him. Jack sighs to himself and turns to the stranger.

“Yeah?”

“You new here?”

He looks directly into Jack’s eyes with an intent, unblinking gaze. Jack’s skin crawls. His eyes are a striking shade of auburn, and that together with dark hair and sharp features makes him look like the devil.

“No.”

Jack takes a step back towards the taps, averting his eyes. Not that he’s afraid of the guy; he’s buff, sure, but can’t be taller, and he doubts he’s a better fighter. But looking straight into a stranger’s eyes is an intimidation technique, and Jack’s convinced this devil of a man did that on purpose. He has a bad gut feeling about him, and he sure as hell doesn’t want any trouble.

“Where’s the hot chick?” the guy asks. “You know, the blonde. Long legs, ass to die for?”

Jack frowns. “That’s my sister you’re talking about.”

“Is she?” He can feel the man’s scrutinizing look all over his body. “She’s dreamy.”

“And engaged.”

“Well, every wagon can be detached, ya know what I’m saying?” He laughs lewdly.

Jack’s very thankful for the group of girls that approach the bar. He fills their orders for colorful cocktails, hoping that maybe when he’s finished, the creep will be gone. But when they pay and retreat to a table nearby, he’s still sitting at the bar, his beer mug only half-empty.

“Look at these perky little asses. Like a candy shop, am I right?”

He’s looking at the girls, but the comment is definitely directed at Jack. He again wishes he could ignore it.

“They’re pretty, yes,” he says quietly, wiping the countertop.

The man huffs a laugh. “Pretty? Ya know what’s pretty? Flowers and stars. These kittens are smoking hot.”

He’s still watching them like a predator would his prey, until one of them looks up. He grins.

“Think she’s any good at sucking cock?” He drains his beer and stands up. “Been nice talking to ya.”

A little taken aback, Jack watches him approach the girls’ table and talk up the one that was looking at him. He’s expecting him to get slapped; he’s seen it more times than he cares to count, a tipsy asshole thinking he’s a master romancer until a loud smack to his cheek puts him back in his place. But no; they invite him to their table. Jack is somewhat annoyed by this, but he refuses to think too much about it. He manages to ignore the table and is only reminded about the asshole whenever one of the girls approaches the bar. After a couple of hours, he notices that they keep ordering, but the asshole hasn’t moved from his place, and he realizes they buy drinks for him. About an hour before the closing, when the pub is already mostly empty, Jack glances at the entrance and sees him leaving with one arm wrapped around one of the girls, his hand squeezing her butt. He’s too far away to tell for sure, but Jack can swear the stranger winks at him before disappearing behind the wooden door.

Truly, he must be the devil.

\--

Jack hopes he won’t see him anymore, but asking about his sister meant he’s been at their pub before, and therefore he’ll most likely keep coming.

It’s been a week when they meet again. Jack comes to the pub Friday night to change his sister behind the bar, and he’s already there, drinking beer. Jack’s sister doesn’t look like she’s in a bad mood, so at least he wasn’t bothering her.

While Jack takes stock of ice and fruit, the stranger’s eyes remain fixed on the TV screen hanging under the ceiling near the bar; it’s on some music channel, but muted. Since no one comes up to order anything, Jack sits down to change the music from pop to something more to his liking.

“Hey.”

The asshole’s voice surprises him and his eyes shoot up just to get caught in an auburn, not-so-sober gaze.

“Did you say what your name was?”

“No,” Jack replies, looking back at the laptop they were playing music on.

“I’m Brock.”

He decides Brock is a jerkass name.

He can still feel Brock’s stare trying to drill a hole in his skull, but he ignores it, focusing on making swift modifications to the playlist he was playing last week. He hopes Brock will take a hint and fuck off.

“Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

It seems that no, he won’t. Jack closes his eyes and sighs.

“Yeah, from here. I sold you beer last week.”

“No, from before that.”

That makes him pause. He tenses up all over, holding his breath.

“Yeah, I’ve definitely seen you before,” Brock continues, unaware of Jack’s distress. “Aren’t you a cage fighter?”

“You a fan?” Jack asks quietly, still not looking at him, already knowing he’s not. He’s not sure why; he guesses Brock just doesn’t  _look_  like a fan, not that MMA fans look a certain way.

“My bro is.” Brock makes a face suggesting he and his “bro” don’t exactly get along, not that Jack cares. “Saw a fight or twenty whether I wanted or not.”

Jack only grunts in response.

“So whatcha doin’ here?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Jack snaps, standing up. “I’m working.”

Brock holds out his palms in a placating gesture, but his nasty smirk sings a different tune. “But not just  _moonlighting_ , right? What, you got caught taking ‘em ‘roids?”

A patron saves Jack from this conversation. He shoots Brock one last glare, the wellbeing of the business be damned, and walks up to the cash register to take the order. He doesn’t like talking about his previous career; it brings back memories of unbearable pain from his injuries and even worse one he felt when he learnt he could never go back to fighting.

Brock leaves him alone after that, with one exception when he orders another beer. It’s a calm night; despite it being Friday, there aren’t many people occupying the tables. Jack spends most of his shift reading an e-book on the laptop. He even manages to forget about Brock for a while, and is surprised to see him sitting still at the bar when he glances up, the TV holding his full attention once again.

An hour passes before somebody else approaches the bar. It’s a tanned blonde in her late twenties, with bright blue eyeshadow and dark pink cheeks that take Jack back to the eighties. He’s about to ask her about her order when Brock beats him to it.

“Hey, hot stuff.” He winks in what he must think is an attractive way, but just looks pathetic. “You came here alone?”

She smiles politely. “I’m waiting for my boo, actually.”

Brock raises his eyebrow at Jack. “Your boo, you say? What kind of good boo leaves his beautiful girl on her lonesome?”

She blinks at him twice, obviously not knowing how to react. Jack is again about to chime in to save her from Brock, but he’s faster.

“Ditch his stupid ass and have a drink with me.” He cocks his head to the side, offering a bright smile that makes dimples show under his stubble.

Jack stares.

There must be some demonic magic at work because he can’t seem to stop staring. He doesn’t look up even when he hears footsteps approaching. They’re followed by an angered voice that causes Brock’s smile to fade, and Jack breaks out from whatever spell he’s been under.

“You got a problem, pal? Why you talkin’ to my girl?”

The owner of the voice turns out to be a guy about six feet tall that looks like he spends too much time in a gym and even more in a solarium. Brock looks him up and down, unimpressed.

“Me? No, I don’t have any problems. Your girl does though.” The boyfriend squints at him. “You see, she has two pussies.”

Jack almost snorts at that, but the boyfriend takes a longer moment to get the insult.

“You callin’ me a pussy?” There’s a note of uncertainty in his voice.

Brock rolls his eyes. “Do I really have to explain it to you?”

The boyfriend blows out his cheeks, going red in the face. “You gon’ regret it, cunt!” He shakes his finger at Brock like he’s scolding a child and hastily leaves the pub.

Brock does a double take. “Did he really just leave?” He looks at Jack, then at the girl, then back at Jack. “What a fucking loser.” He’s so surprised he’s not even amused. Like he was looking forward to getting in trouble.

That makes Jack frown. Trouble is the last thing he wants in his pub.

It quickly turns out Brock isn’t getting away with his little stunt when the boyfriend returns with four big male friends. He points at Brock from the door.

“You gon’ get it now!”

Brock barely manages to get off his bar stool when two of the guys grab him by the shoulders, shove him up against a wall and keep him there. The boyfriend and his other friends stroll towards him. The people nearby take notice. Some leave.

Brock looks at Jack. “A little help here?”

Jack shrugs. “You deserve it.” Bad for business? Maybe, but he’s long past caring.

Brock gives him a face of betrayal like he thought they were friends or something, but his attention quickly shifts to the boyfriend who hovers over him menacingly.

“I think you wanna apologize now,” he says.

Brock gets this unimpressed look again. “Nah, I think not.”

The boyfriend punches him in the face without a warning. Jack sucks in a breath, but he doesn’t move from his place, nor does he speak up.

Brock straightens up, glowering.

“You wanna tell me something now?”

“Why would I wanna talk to a stupid cunt like you?”

The second punch is predictable, but Brock doesn’t have any space to dodge it. Jack flinches when his head hits the wall with a thump. He’s not surprised when the skin on his cheekbone splits – they’re so sharp he could cut glass with them. The blood trickling down his face sets Jack’s chest on fire. He clenches and unclenches his hands. It’s getting harder to stand calmly in place.

It’s been years since he was in a fight.

Brock grins wickedly at his aggressor. The blood spills over his upper lip, painting his teeth red.  Jack’s heartbeat is loud in his ears. He’s almost convinced Brock  _likes_  getting punched.

“That’s all you’ve got?”

The boyfriend growls, turns around and picks up a chair. Jack finally snaps.

“Hey, put that down!”

Beating up a jerk who’s practically asking for it is one thing, destroying his furniture is another. The aggressor doesn’t listen – he takes a swing and throws the chair at Brock, causing his friends to let go of him in fear of being hit. All Brock can do is turn to the side and cover his face before it collides with him, falling apart. Strangled yelps come from all around, and out of the corner of his eye Jack sees more people getting up to leave. It’s not some watering hole with regular brawls; it’s a civilized place, and he decides he’s seen enough. He circles the bar to get close to the boyfriend and calmly but firmly demands he leaves. He doesn’t know why he thought it would work; the boyfriend didn’t listen before, so why would he now. Either not knowing or not caring that Jack’s the owner of the place, he shoves him back hard, yelling if he “wants to get it,” too.

The rational part of Jack’s brain warns him he’ll regret it, but the adrenaline running in his veins makes him deaf to it. He shoves the boyfriend back, and when he takes a swing, Jack blocks it and strikes back, hitting him right on the nose. The boyfriend takes a stumbling step back, his blood dripping on the floor. The other two of his friends that have been just silent spectators, seeing that their comrade is losing, lunge at Jack. He headbutts the first one, and when the other one grabs him, he throws him over his good shoulder. He doesn’t feel any pain as he does, the adrenaline and dopamine fueling him successfully dull it, but he’s aware he’ll regret this move in the morning, or maybe even tonight. Brock isn’t wasting any time either; not helpless anymore, he’s swinging a chair leg around like a sword.

It takes them both maybe five minutes to kick all five men out, who manage to do at least one smart thing tonight and run away before Jack thinks about calling the police. Feeling victorious, Brock yells a few profanities after them. When he’s done and the last running man is out of their sight, he grins at Jack.

“We make a good team, huh?”

There’s blood still streaming down his face and staining his gray t-shirt. Jack makes to wipe it off but stops himself half the way and just turns his back at him to return behind the bar. The blonde is still sitting on her stool, her face blank. Either she’s in shock or what happened is nothing new for her.

“I don’t think he’s coming back,” Jack tells her.

She sighs and starts to dig around in her handbag. “I’ll call him.”

“Or, you could dump his sorry ass and let me drive you home,” Brock says with a wink. “I only drank one beer. We could go to my place, too.”

“You drank two beers,” Jack corrects. And who knows how many before his shift.

“One and a half,” Brock concedes. “So what? I feel completely sober.”

“I can call you a cab,” Jack offers the woman, but she’s staring at Brock.

“I guess…” she says after a moment. “But I need to use the restroom first.”

She gets up and walks towards the narrow corridor leading to the restrooms, Brock checking out her ass as she does. He bites his lip and shakes his head to himself, no doubt at some lewd thought Jack doesn’t want to wonder about. Then he looks at Jack with bright eyes.

“That was great,” he says. “You miss fighting, don’t you?”

Jack straightens up, tension returning to his shoulders, and this time he feels pain shooting up the left one. He purses his lips and says nothing.

“Yeah, I can tell,” Brock continues, undeterred. He takes his wallet out of his back pocket and pulls out a card. “The place I work at, we’re looking for peeps like you. You should give us a call.”

He hands Jack the card, and as much as he wants to ignore it, his curiosity wins, and he takes it.

  

STRATEGIC HOMELAND INTERVENTION, ENFORCEMENT AND LOGISTICS DIVISION

BROCK RUMLOW

STRIKE COMMANDER

T: 555-4937

 

“You’re S.H.I.E.L.D.” Jack looks up at him in surprise. “You planned this.”

Brock smiles slyly. “Brave, handsome,  _and_  smart. Seriously, call us. I’d love to have you on my team.”

Jack’s too stunned to say anything else as he watches him leave and is still staring at the door that closed behind him when the blonde returns from the restroom.

“Where did he go?!”

Jack looks at her like he saw a ghost. He shrugs.

She stands, looking around the desolate pub helplessly for a moment, before turning back to him. “Will you call me that cab?”

\--

Jack leaves the business card on his desk and looks at it every morning after he wakes up, and every night before he goes to bed. He turns it around in his fingers, admires the black logo, he even saves the number in his phone. But he never calls.

He’s not sure what keeps him from it. Perhaps it’s not just one specific thing. He doesn’t want to leave the pub. He’s been co-running it with his sister for half a year and got quite used to it. Jack has always taken comfort in routine and he isn’t fond of breaking it. He’s also not quite sure if he wants to be on Brock the Asshole’s team, whatever that means.

He picks up the card again. 'STRIKE Commander,' it says. Jack was a great fighter in his day, but fighting on a ring isn’t even close to working in a spec op unit. And Brock didn’t just spontaneously give him a card after he saw him in a random bar fight. The whole action was well-thought-out. That means S.H.I.E.L.D. saw something in him, something past his fighting skills. Something that made his injuries irrelevant.

He has an unpleasant feeling that said something is 'so bitter about how his life went, he’s ready to throw everything he has away to change it.'

So he doesn’t call. Keeps the card, looks at Brock’s contact few times a day, but doesn’t press the green button.

After a week passes and the weekend comes, he expects Brock to show up, but he doesn’t. Jack keeps checking the time on his laptop, but when it’s close to midnight and Brock still isn’t occupying his bar stool, Jack stops waiting for him. It reassures him that Brock was coming here for him only. Made a scene, gave him a card and disappeared. Since Jack isn’t going to call, he supposes his life’s gone back to normal and he can forget the whole incident. He hides the card under a small stack of papers on his desk, but still doesn’t throw it away.

As luck would have it, they meet again when Jack stops to think about it. It’s the middle of the week and he’s only opened the pub. He goes outside for a quick smoke before his shift, and there’s Brock standing nearby. He’s wearing a black compression shirt for some reason that lets Jack see his nipples, his abs… His everything, basically. Normally he’d keep himself from staring, but Brock doesn’t notice him yet; he’s looking at a pair of women holding hands passing by.

“Hey, aren’t you two missing a big cock? I could help you out with that.”

They mostly ignore him, except for the finger one of them gives him.

“Aww, what’s wrong with them?” Brock asks, looking after them. “Don’t lesbians find me attractive?”

Jack is so surprised by the sheer stupidity of that question that the only comeback he comes up with is, “Why’re you asking me?”

Brock finally faces him so he can see his eyes roll. “Alright, Mr. Literal, let me rephrase: don’t gay people find me attractive?”

Jack tenses, for two reasons. One, he didn’t expect Brock to _know_ , but as an intelligence agency employee, of course he does. Two, he’s not so great at lying, and he doesn’t want to tell the truth.

Brock takes the two steps that separate them with a sneer. “I asked you a question, faggot.”

Jack isn’t sure if it’s the word itself or Brock throwing it at him that makes him see red, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is that in his rage he grabs Brock by the collar and shoves him up against a wall, his forearm pressing against his throat. Brock cranes his neck back as he’s only tall enough to brush Jack’s chin with his douchy faux hawk. Sunlight illuminates his face, making his eyes look more hazel than auburn, with a bit of green. Wrinkles show up in their corners as he smirks, and Jack realizes this is exactly what the little fucker was aiming for. He’s suddenly aware of how close they are, of Brock’s torso brushing against his.

Why are all the attractive ones always assholes?

“Dick,” he snarls through his teeth.

Brock raises one eyebrow. “You’re asking, or—?”

Jack shoves him again, his back meeting the wall with a thump, and lets him go. He decides he can smoke in the backroom with the window wide open, and strides for the door.

“Call me!” Brock shouts after him.

That night, the business card lands in Jack’s trashcan.

\--

The next time he hears Brock’s voice, he wonders if it counts as stalking already.

It’s night, and he’s locking up. He doesn’t notice a figure leaning against the wall--in the same spot Jack shoved him into before--until the familiar husky voice says, “I’m starting to think you don’t like me.”

Jack only glances at him. He’s wearing that compression shirt again and holding a water bottle as if he went out for a run at two thirty A.M.

“No shit.”

Brock rolls his eyes. “Don’t make it personal.” When Jack doesn’t respond and turns to walk away, he falls in step with him. “Okay, I get it. An intimidatingly hot stranger gives you a business card and asks you to call without offering any other information, I see how you can have doubts.”

He hands Jack another card, and Jack mindlessly takes it. He expects another business card but this one only has a string of numbers handwritten on it.

“It’s my personal number,” Brock explains. “Give me a call. We’ll set up a meeting and I’ll tell you everything you want to know about S.H.I.E.L.D. and your future position.”

“Will you stop stalking me if I do?” Jack asks with a sigh.

Brock offers a disarming smile. “Maybe. Do you want me to stop?”

“How do you think?” Jack barks after a moment of hesitation.

Brock’s smile widens because he noticed, of course he did. “I think you don’t know yourself. We can settle that, too. Are you in a hurry?”

Jack slows down. He’s not; he’s not very tired, there aren’t any errands he can run at this hour, and he can sleep in late. He glances at Brock again and their eyes lock; the streetlamps give his irises an orange hue. The tension growing between them is obvious, and it makes it harder to breathe.

Jack crumples the card in his hand and hides his fists in the pockets of his leather jacket. He can say yes and leave, wipe the smirk off Brock’s face. He can go back home and jerk off in his bed to the fantasy of how this night could’ve gone if he didn’t.

But he can also not do that, and it’s been a while since he had an actual choice.

“No,” he says slowly, still considering his options. “Why?”

Brock shrugs. “Me neither. We can do something fun.”

\--

He ends up in the backseat of Brock’s car, drunk riding his dick.

He doesn’t remember whose idea this was; they just got to the car and then it was kind of already happening. He doesn’t have time to wonder about this either, too busy with Brock’s tongue on the thin scar running from his lower lip almost to the middle of his cheek, Brock’s fingertips on the thick long scar along his shoulder blade, and Brock’s throbbing dick ramming into him, leaving him breathless. Brock tightens his grip on him, his fingers digging into the scar tissue. Dull pain breaks through the alcoholic haze in Jack’s brain, and he lets out a broken moan. He doesn’t know why he thinks biting Brock’s neck right where he can see his artery throb will be a good comeback, but it draws a groan from Brock’s throat and makes his hips jerk up out of rhythm.

Jack finishes before he’s ready for it and he barely manages to brace himself against Brock’s chest before collapsing from the force of it. Brock holds him tighter and lets Jack’s head fall onto his shoulder, still thrusting into him, breathing loudly, chasing his own orgasm. Jack’s mind is blank through it, and he doesn’t notice when Brock stops. Perhaps he even falls asleep for a moment and is brought back to reality by Brock’s hand on his chin, tipping his face back so he can check on him. Jack reaches up to touch the fading scar on Brock’s cheekbone from when the skin split on it that stands out in the light seeping through steamy windows. Brock chuckles.

“You okay there, big guy?”

Jack nods. Brock slaps his thighs.

“C’mon, get off me. I’ll get ya home.”

Jack doesn’t want to move. His body feels heavy and boneless, but he somehow manages to roll himself off Brock and onto the seat. His pants are still tangled around his feet because he never took off his sneakers. Brock gets dressed and exits the car to get behind the wheel.

“Can you drive?” Jack mumbles in a moment of clarity.

“I’ll be careful,” Brock promises and starts the engine.

\--

Jack wakes up in his bed still drunk, with shame burning his guts.

He’s been nursing fantasies about Brock the Hot Asshole for weeks, but that didn’t mean he should execute them in real life. He shouldn’t want them to happen in real life because Brock is exactly the kind of egocentric asshole that always gets what he wants and it makes him believe he’s God’s gift to mankind.

Jack sits up a little too vigorously and his stomach protests. Damn. He doesn’t think he drank that much, but then it’s been a while since he got hammered. He fell asleep in his clothes--he can’t even remember getting home not to mention in his bed--did Brock have to haul him to his apartment? He hopes not. He’s usually able to get home on his own, no matter how drunk.

His t-shirt is come-crusted, so he takes it off and hisses at the pain shooting up his left shoulder. He sits still in an unnatural position for a moment until the ache lessens and carefully rolls his shoulder. His belt is open, and the buckle clatters with his every move. He unzips his pants and pulls them down. He finds out his boxer briefs are also crusty, so he strips completely. Come to think of it, it explains the itching.

He freezes halfway through his attempt to stand up and his ass falls back on the bed, another kind of ache echoing in the center of his body. Did they use protection? Shit. He can’t remember how the whole thing even started. But as a paramilitary, Brock surely gets his routine checkup, right? Jack swallows thickly. His shame is now the size of the State of Washington.

He drops his dirty clothes in the hamper on his way to the bathroom and pauses to check on his leather jacket. It’s hanging on a hook in the foyer, exactly where it should be. He doesn’t find any come stains, and his wallet and cigarettes are still in his pockets, to his relief. He pulls out a crumpled piece of paper, straightens it and stares at the handwritten number. He crumples it again and throws into his trashcan with premeditation.

He both dreads and yearns for the next meeting. He starts every shift with anxiety hurting his stomach, and it doesn’t let up until he locks up and Brock’s nowhere in sight. Once or twice he considers going to the local club where they got drunk before the _incident_ in Brock’s car, but he always goes straight home. He gets ready for bed, and once he lies down, he indulges himself in fantasies that he certainly shouldn’t look to act out in real life. In his imagination, they already did it behind the bar, _on_ the bar, in the backroom, on the hood of Brock’s car, and in Jack’s bedroom.

It’s the last one that he definitely should forget, and that keeps worming its way back whenever he slips his hand into his boxers. It’s different from the others; in this one, Brock doesn’t take him from behind, and he doesn’t have to brace himself against whatever his front is currently pressed into. In this one, they lie in bed, and Brock fucks him sweet and slow, until Jack whines for more, but Brock’s determined to drag it out as much as possible, and doesn’t speed up until the very end when he just can’t restrain himself any longer. It’s hot but too intimate a situation to imagine himself in with Brock of all people. Brock doesn’t fit; stands out in this image like the scar on his otherwise flawless face. And yes, Jack’s not ashamed to admit he wants this, wants to be treated like this, but shouldn’t want it from Brock.

Maybe he’s just lonely.

He has trouble sleeping afterwards, worrying about what tomorrow will bring. About seeing Brock and how he’ll react to it. About _not_ seeing Brock and the crushing disappointment--but also short-lived relief--it’ll result in.

After two weeks of this torment, Jack decides to speed up the inevitable and call Brock. He regrets throwing away his private number in his attempt to forget their night together, but he still has the business one saved in his phone. He gets down to it with trepidation, but once he finally dials the number, no one picks up.

Jack tries another two times a couple of hours later, and then again a day later, with the same result. He stares at the dimming screen of his phone dumbly. Was this all a joke? Brock’s ploy to get Jack to sleep with him since his lines about sucking cock and other offensive things that came out of his mouth weren’t working?

But it doesn’t make any sense. Firstly, nothing would come out of it if Jack called the number right away and found out it was fake. Secondly, the number doesn’t _sound_ like it’s fake. More like the phone is just turned off.

Too tired of the whole situation and wanting to just clear it up, not caring if he’s a victim of some asshole’s practical joke anymore, Jack googles S.H.I.E.L.D.’s Information number and calls it.

“S.H.I.E.L.D. Information, Brittany Payton, how can I help you?” a young female voice asks.

“Hello. My name’s Jack Rollins, I’m looking for Brock Rumlow?”

He becomes aware of his heart hammering in the short amount of time it takes her to reply, “He was transferred to Sibley Memorial Hospital three days ago.”

Jack swears his heart stops for longer than it should.

“Hospital?” he repeats hollowly. “What happened to him?”

“I’m sorry, sir, who are you to him?”

Jack hangs up on her. He sends his sister a text explaining that something came up and he’ll be late, and speeds to his car.

\--

Brock lies in a room with two other men, a sleeping elder and a boy that can’t be more than twenty, preoccupied with his phone. Brock’s bed is at the far end of the room, close to the windows. The sunlight makes his skin look pale, but otherwise he looks alright. The extent of his injuries must be hidden under the covers.

According to Brittany Payton, Brock’s been here for three days, but the space around his bed is empty like he’s just arrived. There’s his phone lying on the nightstand and nothing else; no snacks, no books, no “get well” cards, nothing. It makes Jack think Brock doesn’t have anyone to take care of him, even a friend that would visit. It doesn’t surprise him, not really, but he feels a little bad for him.

Brock seems to be asleep, but his eyes crack open when Jack approaches. He smiles, a warm smile that melts Jack’s heart.

“Jack,” he croaks out, and Jack realizes it sounds weird because he’s never introduced himself. “What are you doing here?”

Jack takes a plastic chair and drags it close to Brock’s bed. The boy glares at him for making noise, but Jack ignores him.

“I finally called you, but you weren’t answering.”

Brock frowns in confusion. “And you tracked my phone?”

“I called S.H.I.E.L.D. and asked about you.”

The smile returns to Brock’s face. “Brave, hot, smart _and_ loyal. I really hit a jackpot with you.” He coughs a little in his hand.

“What’s wrong with you?” Jack asks, not happy about the concern audible in his voice, but not surprised either. Somewhere between being annoyed and mesmerized with this asshole, he grew to care about him.

“You want the whole list?” Brock’s quiet laughter ends in a coughing fit. “I’ve had worse,” he says once he calms down. “I’ll be fine.” He closes his eyes. “I’m glad to see you, but can we reschedule our S.H.I.E.L.D. talk for another day? When I actually can keep my eyes open?”

“Yeah,” Jack says, standing up. “I gotta go to work, anyway.”

“Don’t let this discourage you.” Brock waves vaguely at his body. “Accidents will happen, but this job is worth it.”

“I’ve always been a risk taker.” Didn’t work out so well for him in the end, Jack must admit, but maybe it’s just temporary. Maybe he’s just another risk away from being happy.

He lingers in the doorway. Brock turns onto his side, his back to the door, shaking with coughs, and Jack decides he’ll bring him water and snacks tomorrow. He shakes his head at himself and leaves the room. Now he’s caring, soon he’ll get attached. He’s got a bad feeling about this. Like he’s just fallen into the devil’s trap.

It feels too good to try to get out.


End file.
